


On Their Side

by DestielsDestiny



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 13x13, 13x17, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Torture, Canon-Typical Violence, Castiel in the Bunker, Families of Choice, Gabriel (Supernatural) Returns, Gabriel Being Gabriel, Gabriel Needs a Hug, Gen, Graphic Description, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Gabriel, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jack is adorable, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Protective Castiel, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Sort Of, Spoilers, Violence and Torture described, bunker family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 15:19:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14263893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestielsDestiny/pseuds/DestielsDestiny
Summary: Gabriel has been dead since flip phones were still a thing. For a being who has seen the turn of the universe, that is surprisingly hard to cope with.





	On Their Side

**Author's Note:**

> AN: The first of probably many 13x13 reaction fics, because, well, Gabriel. Broadly, this story is about the passage of time, as Gabriel has experienced it. Because, well, I was in high school when Gabriel “died” (and never have quotation marks looked more beautiful)…and I’m part way through a doctorate by the time he came back, so. About time guys! About damn time!  
> This hasn't been proofread too throughly yet, so fair warning. Also, there are some internal continuity errors, which are more or less intentional.

Time has no meaning in Hell. Gabriel can no longer recall which of his darling brothers first mouthed that trite little phrase. 

He suspects Zachariah. It’s about his level of douchiness, anyway. 

Course, it stands to reason that it also wasn’t a complete load of crap. That’s about how his luck has always run. 

Cause the thing is, he actually hasn’t the foggiest clue how long he’s been down here. Never much thought to ask either, barely spared it a thought until dear old Assymodo or whatever attempted to pull off a menacing smirk in response to Gabriel’s pointed, “How’s the old apocalypse going for y’ll?” Considering how much of a face that last demon had left him with-that is, not too damn much at all-he feels the approximation of a southern drawl was pretty darn impressive, if he does say so himself. 

The smirk was a lost cause from the beginning, because even before he developed a fondness for dressing like a unsuccessful LA pimp, Assmodo had never failed to remind Gabriel of a bizarre lovechild of Lord Voldemort and ol’Luci. 

The words that accompanied it…well, they were an entirely different matter. 

“Now, which apocalypse might we be talking about then? There’ve been so very many lately.”

Gabriel feels like the world is ending every day, between the décor and the demons it’s hard not to, but that…he has no idea what to do with that. How many apocalypses are there?

And exactly how long has he been this clown’s plaything for. 

The thought gives him just enough anger to sizzle out and dissolve the fingers of the demon holding him the tightest, just enough desperation to snap back a glib, “Oh, how about the traditional one. Good old family values, end of days, plagues, locusts. I hear they’re really tasty with a good barbecue sauce.” 

Seeing the answering rage in Douche in White’s expression at his failure to attain the desired response, to make Gabriel quiver in defeat, it almost worth being thrown to the demons again. 

It isn’t the day he loses his voice. That is still an eternity of hell off. But it is the day that he allows himself to wonder, how long have I been here. 

It’s a thought he is never quite able to shake after that, no matter how much flesh is torn from his bones, or thoughts ripped from his head. 

00

Ironically, the general demon population doesn’t seem to care that he is an angel, extra juice or otherwise. Oh, they delight in taking him apart cruel piece by cruel piece, but there is no added vigour or particular joy in it. 

There is a part of Gabriel that can almost feel pity for them, for the twisted and distorted things they have become. And no, it’s not the angel part. 

It is the same part that spent nearly an eon around his father’s youngest creations, that fled to Earth to escape the craziness of his family, but stayed to experience the craziness of theirs. 

It is the same part that holds onto the memory of two brothers daring him to do the right thing, the memory of every person he ever kissed, the memory of what chocolate tasted like, of what silk felt like. 

The part that shoved porn at the Righteous Man, and for the first time and last time, allowed himself to see the damage Hell could do to a soul. 

To see the resilience a soul like that could still show. 

Gabriel meant every word he said to his dear big brother, in those last moments he remembers, truly remembers, with a clarity untouched by Hell’s taint. 

If a soul that broken could stand up and fight to save the world, well, kinda put a whole different spin on his millennia in “witness protection” didn’t it. 

So yeah, he meant every word, right down to the moment that he chose a side no one quite thought of it that fated grudge match. Not for the good, or the bad, goons and the knights, but for people. 

Not humanity, not exactly, but anyone just trying to get by. Human, Pagan, Creature, Angel, Demon. What the fuck ever really. Just…people. Gabriel likes people. Always has. 

And he almost, almost likes who he was when he tried to be one of them. To be a real live, frigging person. 

He wishes his brothers had tried it sometime. Might have given them some much needed perspective. 

A growl sounded nearby. Gabriel grown, prising what was left of an eye lid open and eyeing the approaching hell hound with a resigned huff. 

Slight correction. The general demonic population had not given a particular fuck about who Gabriel was. Not, that is, until helpful old As had sent out a memo about precisely whose side he had been on during the “traditional” apocalypse. 

The posters had even said that, flaking pieces of suspiciously flesh coloured parchment tacked to every wall and ceiling available, a particular unflattering shot of Gabriel himself, with a “On the side of the people” smeared in red across his forehead in every conceivable language. It was the height of tacky. 

And excruciatingly effective. Who knew demons retained the ability to read. 

Another growl. Gabriel let his eyelid slide back into place, and struggled to find it within himself to smirk. 

“Nice doggy.” 

This was going to bite, he just knew it. 

But hey, at least he would die laughing this time. 

00

Luci didn’t kill him. He knows that for a fact. That, he remembers, in every excruciating detail. 

His big brother did not kill him. 

Stab him, maim him, mutilate his grace, throw him in the pit to be a hell hound’s chew toy, yes to all of the above. But he drew the line at killing him. 

Yip-fucking-yahoo. 

How he got from doggy chew toy to favourite pet of the latest “King of Hell,” well let’s just say he’s a little fuzzy on some of the details and call it a day. 

Whether that is true, how much he truly remembers, well…that’s for him to know. And no one else to ever find out. 

Cause in the end, only two things are truly important in the grand equation of this fucked up thing called his life and family. 

His big brother did not kill him. 

He did not die on the floor of a cheap motel ballroom in nowhere Indiana, defending two lost orphans and a pagan god, all of whom he sorta, kinda, thinks he might have loved. 

And second? 

Well, let’s just say, where there’s life, there’s…possibility. 

00

“Gabriel.” That’s what he said. The word he uttered that finally, finally, finally proved to be too much for his delightful captors. 

His own damn name. Of course. 

What better to get the self-staged “god of lies’” mouth stitched shut than his own true name. 

Gabriel suspects if he ever allowed himself to truly reflect on the irony of it all, he would drown himself in his own thoughts. 

Okay, maybe a little context is needed here. 

He did not break. No siree, nope, nada, zilch. 

They truly did not have anything on him that would make him break. None of the genius’ had thought to kidnap the right people for that to ever happen, and if they hadn’t figured it out by now, well, he wasn’t planning to enlighten them. 

But there was a moment where he came close. A moment where he slipped up, just a smidge. 

A moment where he called out for help. 

Gabriel’s relationship with family is…complicated, to say the very least these days. 

But being made to watch his baby brother forced into a cage with Luci of all people…being forced to watch, helpless, while the bastard possessed sweet, gullible, decent Castiel. 

Well, turned out that right there was a hard limit for him, and not in a fun way. 

This lot might not be the sharpest torturers in the shed, but Gabriel knew he wouldn’t get much of a chance, so he summoned as much of his grace as he was ever able to grasp these days, jerked away from the skeletal hands holding him in all the wrong places, and screamed across angel radio at his little brother. 

“Gabriel!” Because if anything will catch people’s attention, even better than the name of a dead man he figures, it’s the name of a dead archangel. 

He gives it everything he has, that yell. 

Something cracks inside him, being faced with the knowledge that everything he had was still a complete and utter failure. 

Cracks open wide enough that even as Asmodeus approaches him with a needle and steel thread, even as he forces his head back and agony descends, he can’t find it in himself to struggle. 

Gabriel says his own name for the first and only time in his captivity in an attempt to save his little brother from their douche of a big brother. 

And it’s the last thing he ever says, for a very, very long time. 

00

Chicken soup is surprisingly hard to eat one handed. A perpetual tremor does not help. Gabriel swallowed a wince as scalding liquid hit his vessel’s arm for the fifth time in as many minutes. 

Once God’s chosen Messenger, then self proclaimed God of Mischief, now defeated by a bowl of chicken noodle soup. Oh, how the mighty had fallen. 

He snorted quietly, before flinching at the sound, surprise knitting across his forehead as he belatedly remembered that yes, the stiches were truly gone. That yes, sounds were once again something he was capable of producing. 

Removing the stitches had been…interesting. Nuff said. 

Gabe hadn’t yet been able to bring himself to say anything, only the barest of whimpers escaping his lips as the last stitch slipped free. 

A hurried scuffle sounded behind them, Sam’s eyes unfixing themselves from Gabriel’s protective hunch over his soup to turn even more liquid with emotion at whom ever had just joined this little soiree. 

Gabe hunched a little more, chancing a glance over his shoulder. Probably just Dean returning from where ever he had disappeared to, but somehow that had almost sounded like the flap of-

His little brother was still wearing that ridiculous trench coat. Gabe felt the spoon slip from his fingers at the sight of Cassie alive and whole and more animated than he had ever seen him. 

He looked…human. He looked…good. “Gabriel…” A whisper, a prayer, a benediction. 

“Cas-s,” it was more a prayer than a plea, but his brother was there in an instant, arms wrapping around him like comforting vices, trench coat brushing against his battered skin. 

It was more a prayer than a word, but as Gabe would come to learn, around here, it was far from a bad prayer to make. 

Cause unlike many other kinds of prayers, this one was always, always answered. 

00

The wrapper crinkled. Cheap plastic on waxy chocolate. Gabriel remembered a time when that sound meant more to him that really great sex. 

His fingers slipped yet again, mashing clumsily against the flimsy wrapping, tips shiny with burns he no longer recalled the origin of. 

Thud. The bar hit the kitchen floor with an oddly loud sound for such a small, insignificant thing. Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut in frustration, his damaged hands slamming into the tabletop with a quiet thump. 

Embracing the agony of that movement, Gabriel curled just enough grace into his lips to form a satisfyingly audible word. “Damnit!” 

The shuffle behind him was undoubtedly deliberate, and no where approaching subtle, but Gabriel appreciated the effort nonetheless. 

“What Deano?” In another time, another life, there would have been more to that sentence, but if the past eight years-and Dad had it felt so, so much longer-had taught him anything, it was the value of words. 

It was why he expended the grace and faced the pain to say anything at all. Some things were still worth saying. 

“You need some help with that?” Gabriel has never watched humans actually walk around on broken ovum shells, but he suspects observing the Bunker’s inhabitants attempts to negotiate their way around living with a hell-battered archangel is close enough to the general principle of the thing. 

His hands curling involuntarily on the tabletop, he straightened up stiffly and swung hooded eyes to meet equally haunted green ones. 

Everyone in the Bunker has looks more or less like that, these days. And you would think that would make things so much harder, but somehow, it’s the exact opposite. 

It does make things easier. Along with making Gabriel really damn depressed, but then, kinda comes with the dubious mantel of “most compassionate” on the archangel radar. 

Not sure what that said about him. 

Dean was no stranger to Gabriel’s frequent bouts of staring into space, and the sight of the eldest Winchester holding a battered snickers bar in one hand, an almost hopeful look of inquiry on his face, was almost enough to break Gabriel all over again. 

Father, everyone in this damn place was so ridiculously damaged even Luci wouldn’t find it funny. 

Gabriel examined the squished end of the bar, and mentally revaluated. 

Because yeah, if Sam’s nightmares were anything to go by, his big bro was exactly the kind of sadistic fuck who would get off on these boys’ sufferings. 

As if draining Gabriel’s grace to shreds and dumping him in Hell wasn’t enough of a give away already. 

Gabriel gave himself a mental shake. He could kill his brother later. 

Right now, there were more important things going on. Such as a Winchester holding a snickers bar. 

Apparently, life wasn’t entirely out of the nice kind of surprises. 

00

The eldest Winchester concentrated on slowly peeling the brown plastic away from the mangled confection, his eyes studiously lowered, his voice carefully even. 

“You remember what the last thing you ever said to me was?” 

Gabriel let his eyes track the path of a cracked peanut, edged with a brown, waxy veneer, as it tumbled rapidly towards the bunker’s kitchen floor. “Oh baby don’t touch me like that?” 

Casa Erotica seems like a lifetime ago, but he has had several of those to hold and cherish every detail of that memory, every cheesy, gauche, delicious moment. Not sure what is says that a porno helped keep him sane in Hell, but then, hey, this is him they’re talking about. 

Besides, it has the delightful side effect of getting Deano to finally, finally break his contemplation of the remains of that snickers bar, his green eyes a lovely shade of exasperated, not a single shadow or hint of hauntedness in sight. 

“In person.” You dick was swallowed rather than uttered aloud, but for once, Gabriel fought past the ghosting pain that was moving his lips even a fraction of an inch and managed a small chuckle at his own terrible pun. 

“That you were right?” It’s offered up without a trace of irony, just deadpan enough to earn a wonderful eyeroll. Gabriel is loving this conversation far more than he thought he would. 

Dean scrunched the wrapper into one fist with a triumphant “ha!” before preferring the mutilated remains of what was once a chocolate bar towards Gabriel, the wax already melting into his open palm. 

Golden eyes met green with incredulity, and for just an instant, Gabriel could hear Dean’s silent “gotcha!” as clear as day. 

“You said you’d decided to stand up. To take a stand. To make a difference.” Gabriel held the gaze, unflinching. There was a part of him that was proud for his ability to do that, even after everything. There was a larger part of him that was despairing at how far he had fallen. 

Except, genuine eye contact had never really been a strong suit of his, now had it, even before he became the King of Hell’s plaything. 

“And then I got myself stabbed in the stomach by my own brother in less than five minutes. Way to win one for the home team.” Heaven had taught Gabriel what a good offense against rejection over inflated self-importance can be, much the same way High School had taught it to Dean. 

Unfortunately, if it takes one to know one, he was screwed from the moment this conversation began. 

“You stood up. You took one for the team. A pretty damn massive one, as it turns out.” The chocolate was nearly half melted off the nuts by this point. Dean clenched his jaw against what was most definitely not a throat clear, and plowed on. 

“You helped us save the world using porn man. If that isn’t the most epic thing I’ve ever seen, I don’t know what is.” And that was definitely the beginnings of a shadow in the corner of those green depths. Damn. 

Gabriel swallowed a throat lump of his own, and did what he still did best. Deflect. 

“Why Deano, did you just call me epic?” Dean dropped his eyes and head with a groan, and Gabriel took shameless advantage of the opportunity to lick the entire mess of chocolate and nuts off Dean’s hand in one fell swoop. 

He was going for graceful, which it was decidedly not, his uncooperative limbs falling against Dean in an undignified heap, even as his lips pulsed with renewed agony, his tongue lapping at smudges of chocolate is if they were the remains of an oasis in a centuries long draught. 

To his credit, and precisely no one’s surprise, Dean catches the archangel expertly, supporting his weight gentle, even as his sticky, saliva covered hand wipes desperately at his shirt front, and a whined, “Ugh, Gabe, gross!!!” filled the kitchen. 

Gabriel sucks on a particularly waxy tasting nut, and turns a painful laugh into some conveniently situated flannel. Dad had he missed snickers bars. 

00

They weren’t boys anymore. It was the first genuine, superfluous thought that had flitted through his head in years, the first thing that truly struck him about life outside of being Asmodeus’ pet chew toy. 

The first thing he took note of, that had nothing whatsoever to do with Hell. 

It was Dean’s eyes that struck him, really. That hammered it home. The same shade of dusky bottle green, the same determined jaw and veiled protectiveness. 

But there was a depth, a weight, an agelessness to that gaze that Gabe had never seen before. Oh, there was always shadows in those eyes, probably had been since the lad was four years old. But this, this was different. 

Just as Sam’s hair was longer and straighter, his shoulders more burdened, his baby fat long since melted away. 

Just as Cas used sarcasm like a precision tool, spiked his hair with actual gel and spouted pop culture references left and right. 

Just as they now lived in a Bunker, just as they now accepted Gabriel with open arms and worried, protective stances. As if adopting angelic beings was something they did as a matter of course. As if God’s family was automatically their own, whether it was a seraph or a Nephilim or an archangel or the Lord Almighty himself. And that was a story Gabe was still trying very, very hard not to think about. 

But the biggest difference, clear and away and into the breeze. Well, that was rather self-evident now wasn’t it. Gabe trailed a nail-less fingertip idly along one of the picture frames. He suspects that Mary was the one responsible for most of these. Far too much fake machismo and toxic testosterone posturing still floating around for it to have been one of the boys. 

Hey, he didn’t just hang out in colleges for the co-eds. Well, they weren’t the only reason at least. 

“Dean made the frames.” There was enough hesitation there that Gabriel felt only trace amounts of guilt for his own flinch. His control over his grace was…sporadic at the best of times these days, but if anyone would understand, it was his baby brother. “…Jack wanted to try “Arts and Crafts.” 

The air quotes were audible, even with the archangel’s back still turned to Castiel. Well, the more things changed he guessed. 

Jack. A touchy subject these days, if only because Gabe lacked the energy or control required to pin his brother down in one place long enough to actually have a conversation about his newest-and to date only, it bore repeating often and dramatically-nephew. 

Gabe swung as dramatically as he could to face Castiel, absurdly proud for a moment that he managed to remain upright and ended up pointed in relatively the right direction at the same time. Progress. “For the record Castiel, I don’t give a Dad that you’ve adopted a Nephilim. He sounds like a great kid. Has excellent taste and everything, according to Sam.” To date, the only member of the Bunker that didn’t react like a scarred rabbit when anything remotely approaching the topic of Jack or Nephilim came up in the presence of their newly acquired archangel houseguest. 

Electric blue eyes seared into him for a moment, and even a decade in Hell and several millennium in Heaven didn’t prevent the shiver of fear that went down his spine. Never underestimate what a parent will do for a child. Mostly though, he just felt proud. 

And a little sad, because where on any plane of existence had any of these boys learned how to be parental. Either his shields were worse than he thought, or Castiel had a lot more juice than he used to, because his brother’s face abruptly softened past less wary into openly affectionate. 

Moving carefully to Gabriel’s side, he selected a frame that enjoyed pride of place in the entire display. The trucker hat was somewhat off putting, but there was a warmth that glowed from the grizzled man casting a gimlet eye at the camera, even through the poor conductor of plain paper and far too much time. 

“You should call me Cas, everyone else does and…I find I prefer it.” Casti-Cas gestured towards the armchairs squashed near one of the rooms spiral railings. “Come, brother. Allow me to tell you about one of the finest souls it has ever been my privilege to meet. Robert Singer.” Cas paused a moment, sensing Gabriel’s continued hesitation. 

“And perhaps later we may partake of some nougat. Dean always keeps a stash close at hand.” Only the briefest hesitation this time. “It is Jack’s favourite.” 

Gabe couldn’t help the grin that ran across his face, even as it tugged at his still healing scars with a fierceness that stole his vessel’s breath for a moment. “Sounds like a lad after my own heart.” 

Cas cocked his head, an armchair sliding of its own accord to shorten Gabriel’s journey on legs still unsteady from years of disuse. “Yes, I am reliably informed that a sweet tooth runs in the family.” And maybe it was because nobody had yet had the heart to relate the whole Chuck and pancakes tale to Gabe, or maybe it was the picture he still held in his hand, which prominently featured five bunker occupants and an entire rainbow of cotton candy, or maybe it was the edge of a smile twitching at his baby brother’s lips, but for whatever reason, Gabriel suddenly felt the urge to do something he hadn’t done in nearly nine years. 

Throwing himself into the armchair hurt every joint in his vessel something fierce, but even that did not prevent Gabriel from throwing his head back and laughing until the tears streaming down his face were more from mirth than from pain. 

And when he finally gets himself back under control to find three matching expressions of confused concern staring at him, well. There was that biggest difference again, right there. 

Gabe rubbed his scarred hands together, and grinned through the aches. “Well boys, tell me what I’ve missed.” 

Boys. Three, not two. Because, as those pictures made more than clear, somewhere in the past decade, the Winchester boys had grown in number. 

And maybe Gabriel is still enough of God’s messenger to know that that was how it was always meant to be. How it would have been, in a perfect world. 

And while this is far, far from a perfect world, Gabriel of all people has long since learned the value of making the best of what you can get. 

Even if that meant living in close proximity with not one, not two, but three Winchester boys. 

00 

As a general rule, Winchester don’t do therapy. Just look how it’s worked out every time they’ve tried anything remotely close to it. 

Besides, number of times they’ve all been to Hell? What therapist could withstand that kind of downloading? 

Ergo, their angels don’t do therapy either. Nor does their archangel. 

Which is going fine, swimmingly even. 

Until one morning over coffee and burnt bagels-it was Sam’s morning to cook-Cas quietly brings up the topic of anti-possession tattoos, side eyeing Gabriel with way too much head tilt to ever pass as subtle. 

And Dena is just caffeinated enough to be crass enough to say this to Gabe’s dubious stare, “Hey man, at least it isn’t the Mark of Cain or anything. Cause now, that really sucked.” 

All the lights in the Bunker go out. When they come back on a moment later, every one is knee deep in semi-molten coffee. 

So, there’s that. 

00

Sam attempts to flip a pancake, stares at the remnants stuck to the ceiling, and sighs. “This is less fun than the Cage was.” 

They are promptly all showered with smarties. Melting ones. It takes them a week to get the tie-die effect out of the floors. 

Cas, over dinner. “I declared myself God and worked with the King of Hell.” 

Lemon drops. The walls were sticky for days. 

“So, um, we killed Death.” Frosting snow. 

“Cain was actually kind of cool.” Pie on the ceiling. Dean almost didn’t mind that one. 

“I’m Lucifer’s son. Technically.” Peanut butter cups falling from the sky at random intervals. 

“Bobby died.” Tulips carpeting everything. 

“So, the angels were all banished from Heaven and lost their wings. But, good news is, we’re only on sixth Apocalypse!” A beat, “Seventh, Dean.” 

Pineapple in the bathtubs. Odd, and kind of gross. 

“We let Lucifer out of the Cage.” Tootsie rolls popping up through the floor. 

“Um, God dropped by. Turns out he was hiding as a guy named Chuck.” Less said about the reaction to that one, the better all round. Dean still shudders at the memory. Sam refuses to speak of it. Cas just looks sad. 

Golden-green eyes hesitant and wary, apple juice and tomato soup for lunch because Jack was still figuring out what flavours went with what. 

“I broke. In Hell, with the Prince of all Asshats. I broke. And I don’t…quite know how to pick up the pieces again.” 

Dean enlists Cas’ help in making apple turnovers. They’re lopsided and a bit too crisp, but the look on Gabe’s face when they present an entire platter to him is a memory they will all treasure forever. 

So, on balance, therapists zero, Team Free Will 2.5, one. Probably. 

00

They are not bedtime stories. Dean is very firm on that point. Sam hides a smirk. Cas looks fondly resigned. And Jack…well, Jack steals a line right out of confused Angel 101, complete with head tilt and bewildered query, “But they are stories. And it is almost time for bed, is it not?” 

And damn if Dean hadn’t been the one who spent half of last week explaining to Cas and Sam why it was necessary for kids to have a set bedtime, even all powerful Nephilim ones. 

And double damn if that didn’t make the kid look so darn much like Cas. 

Bedtime stories it was. Damnit. Fine. 

Dean mentally reviews what he used to tell Sammy at bedtime and comes up with an alarming amount of stuff about the ninja turtles, cause those little dudes are creep as fuck, yeah, but it was the 80s, so. 

Sitting across from an eager Jack, Dean clears his throat, “So, there’s these turtles-“ 

Cas chooses that moment to swoop in, flap of trench coat and all. “Dean, it is no longer the 1980s.” Dean raises his hands in mock surrender. 

“All yours dude.” Bedtime stories are Cas’ department after that. Dean is more than cool with that.

But every evening, without fail, Dean finds himself perched on the same pillar where he once sat before God and cried, his head resting on the cool stone, listening to a fallen angel tell Chuck’s grandkid stories about an archangel with honey gold eyes, and he finds himself, inextricably, somehow, missing a certain archangel. 

Maybe it’s the reverence in Cas’ tone, or the heartbreaking eagerness of Jack’s, that first night, when he jumped clean off the couch and cried, “This must be where I get my love of sugary things from! Uncle Gabriel! Can I meet him soon father?” the words tumbling one over the other over the other. 

Or maybe it’s just that he finally, finally gets what Sam meant, the various times Gabriel came up in conversation down the years, from the moment they stumbled back into a silent motel ballroom in the middle of Arkansas Indiana, and found nothing but burnt feathers and scorched wing marks, splayed in a majestic parody of the glory of Heaven across the cheep wooden floorboards.   
“I know it’s stupid Dean, ok. We only met the guy a couple times, and he was always kinda a jerk. Plus he killed you like, a million times.” 

“A thousand Sammy, it was a thousand.” 

“Right, right. I know that, intellectually. I guess it’s just, it was reassuring somehow, you know. Knowing he was out there, somehow, that he might just show up suddenly when things got bad, and with a snap of his fingers, make everything better.” 

This was the point in this conversation where Dean always slanted an incredulous look at his brother. “And you found that reassuring? Seriously?” 

And this was the part that always shut him up, Sam’s eyes carefully downcast, his tone quiet and serious. “Yeah, guess it kinda reminded me of you, and how you’ve always been there for me. Whatever, it’s stupid.” 

Except, listening to Cas say “he was my big brother” in response to Jack’s subdued, “What was he like?” it finally, finally hit Dean how very not stupid Sam’s thoughts and prayers regarding the only remotely non-dickish of the archangels were. 

Because whatever else he was, whatever else he had done, when the chips were down, Gabriel was there, retro TV references, lollipops and porn and all. He was there. He stood up for them, protected them. He died for them. 

And as Dean would know better than just about anyone, those are precisely the kind of things big brothers are supposed to do. 

00

Gabriel does not scream. 

It is not that he can’t scream. Indeed, none of them is ever likely to forget the otherworldly cry that rips from the mutilated archangel’s lungs the moment they attempt to begin removing the stiches from his mouth. 

It haunts all of their nightmares, that cry. 

So no, Gabriel doesn’t scream. Instead, he swallows every cry and groan, muted and suffused, as if his mouth was still forever sewn shut. 

Somehow, that silence haunts all their nights more than screams every could. 

00

Is it Sam that it begins with, that first night after they rescued Gabriel. 

Dean wakes from listless slump over the command table, Cas a restless weight against his shoulder. For a moment, Dean struggles between catching Cas or catching the whiskey as they all tumble to the floor, a scream wringing in their ears. 

Cas solves it by catching all of them, the flick of one hand mojoing the bottle back to the tabletop, not a drop spilled, his hands gripping Dean’s shoulders. 

Their eyes meet in the space, the sound echoing once again through the Bunker’s halls. 

“Sam.” In perfect unison, they jump for the door. 

Dean has his first night terror the day after his mother died. His panicked cries wake Sammy, whose confused screaming wakes John. It goes down hill from there.   
There are a lot of reasons Dean stopped talking for a while. 

“Winchesters don’t have nightmares boy.” He suspects John was drunk when he said that, but he said it with enough regularity that that’s neither here nor there in the sucked at parenthood slot. 

But drunk or not, Dean can never quite get the words out of his head. 

In this moment though, they are several stays in Hell past anything their father ever said mattering a single iota. Plus, it’s Sam. 

And maybe he is just all out of fucks to give. 

It takes both him and Cas between them to sooth a groggy and panicked Sam into something close to a restless doze, Cas’ grace and Dean’s hands the only keeping his brother from shaking apart. 

But somewhere between Dean wincing at every aborted flinch and Cas growling at every cut of “Please Lucifer, no-“ the Bunker’s newest occupant sneaks into the room, picking an unobtrusive corner to curl up in. 

And maybe the room shakes every time Lucifer’s name is torn from Sammy’s lips, maybe Dean finds it hard to breath over the smell of ozone and fear pervading the room, but maybe Sam’s cries grow slowly quieter. 

And maybe, eventually, impossibly, they disappear altogether. 

00

Dean had a scar once, before Hell, before Cas. Long and thing, stretched and whitened by age and time, almost obscured by his hairline. But a scar nonetheless. 

Long after the mark gone however, the memory remains. A night terror of fire and blood, the smell of sulphur burning in his nostrils, a hand too small to reach the top of John’s back on the crappy motel bed. Silent scream of Mommy forever stuck in his throat. 

John’s drunken curses, a broken beer bottle and a head wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding, no matter how hard Dean pressed the motel towel to his own forehead. 

As a rule, Dean does not dream of that night anymore. So many, many other things have long since taken pride of place in his nightly torments. 

But he wakes at two in the morning to find an archangel holding perfectly still, Demon knife pressed to a too pale throat, and for a moment, John Winchester is all he can see or smell or hear. 

“Dean.” The command in that tone was clear. But so was the kindness. Dean blinked, and suddenly there was just the Bunker, Gabe cautiously perched on the edge of the bed, knife carefully passed to Cas, Sammy bleary eyed in the doorway.

He blinks again, sarcasm rearing its ugly head. 

Only to be rendered speechless by the sudden change in position, a giant bed complete with four posters and kinda creepy hanging curtains replacing his simple single. Sam raises his head from the pillows, peering around a serene Cas-still complete with trenchcoat, and seriously dude??-to side eye Gabriel. Speaking of, Dean appeared to have grown an archangel shaped appendage across his chest. Dean blinked. And blinked again. And…decided to leave the intelligent comments to Sammy. 

“Gabe…are there feather pillows?” Dean thudded his head down with a groan. Thanks Sam, just great. 

Gabriel patted Dean absently on the head, flashing Sam a leering grin. “You bet your pretty hair they are Sammy!” Dean shook his head in a vain attempt to dislodge the petting. “That doesn’t even made sense!” 

Gabriel snorted. “Live with it Dean-o.” There was a long beat of silence. 

“Gabriel,” the smile was somehow audible, “Yeah Cassie?” Another pause, then, “I am very glad to see your grace is returning to its previous strength brother.” There definitely were not tears in the responding, “Thanks old bean.” And no, Cas was definitely not blinking back tears. 

Dean squirmed. This was so far past chick flick. 

The bed shifted, and green-gold eyes were suddenly millimetres from his own. “Ass-modo hated it when I made noise too.” The head flopped down beside Dean’s, eyes sliding firmly shut on Dean’s gaping mouth. The breath thudded out of his lungs and refused to come back. 

Then Cas’ fingers knitted with Gabriel’s across his chest, Sam’s gigantor paw coming to rest against his head, and Dean felt his heart slow seemingly of its own accord. 

And, well, John can just go straight back to Hell, okay. Cause its been a really long, well, years, and Dean is so very tired. 

And for the record, archangels? Make really great pillows. 

00

Gabriel does not scream. He doesn’t have nightmares either. Nor night terrors.   
No, he has night hurricanes. There’s no other word for it really, the entire Bunker shaking from the inside out, plates shattering only to remake themselves moments later, dust falling in the wrong direction, rain whipping upward in one room, snow falling in another. Wind whistling through walls, doors banging shut smoothly on hinges that haven’t been oiled in a hundred years. 

As solutions go, Dean’s is rudimentary and only semi-effective, but, well, it sorta works for Cas too, so…

Still, huddling on the floor of the panic room with a tattered down comforter, a supply of mars bars, a weighted blanket, a bunch of multi-coloured ponchos, and a groggy archangel is certainly one of the most memorable things he’s ever done with Sammy and Cas, so really, its all good. 

Plus, as Jack will one day exclaim, bright green poncho slick with muddy rain, lips smeared with chocolate, Gabriel wrapped around his nephew like a sleepy spider monkey, “It’s a great family bonding experience!” 

And this points, Dean has given up on thinking about how weird their lives are. 

00

Life with a recovering archangel with severe PTSD is hardly all wine and roses-Dean has long since learned to ignore the vases of flowers that appear at random intervals around the Bunker, and none of them drink wine anyway, so-but it still takes him and Sam a surprisingly long time to get into a good old brotherly disagreement over something. 

Unsurprisingly, that something is Gabriel. Dean isn’t even sure how the argument starts, or why they choose to do it during one of the times Cas has designated as “quiet, meditative recovery time for the family.” He’s even laminated it onto the fridge, the adorable nerd. 

“Of course I want him here Sammy! What the Hell kinda-“ Dean swallowed the rest of his shout, swinging his body away from his brother, his hand curling into a loose fist as he pressed it to his lips and resisted the urge to bite down until he tasted red as well as saw it. 

Sammy was on a roll however. “Well gee Dean, I don’t know. You’ve only been avoiding Gabe like a feral cat for a whole week now!” 

Dean threw a wary look at the open doorway

“Why would’t I want him here!? He’s a goddamn Archangel, he’s Cas’ big brother, Jack’s uncle, and oh yeah, one less person we actually got killed! It’s a win win for everybody!” Dean winced at the decibel his own voice rose to on that last point. They really should have picked a better time of day to do this. But hey, they were still Winchesters, idiot decisions and all. 

Sam threw up his hands, looking for all the world like an exasperated moose, and Chuck did Dean miss Crowley sometimes it hurt in really weird places. “Then why are you acting like he has the plague?” 

When Dean finally found words to reply, shouting was the last thing on his mind. “We got him sent to Hell Sammy. Hell. We did that, I did that, talked him into suicide mission at the end of the world because we were young and stupid and I was desperate and way, way out of my league. And for eight years I thought we’d just gotten him killed, and hey, I’ve almost managed learned to live with the guilt of that, on the days when it isn’t eating me alive from the inside out.” Dean refused to look at his brother, his eyes carefully focused on the wood grain of the who even knew how many years old kitchen table. The past Men of Letters sure knew how to make a table that lasted. 

“But we didn’t get him killed after all. We got him sent to Hell. And somehow…somehow, that’s so much worse, cause it’s so much worse than getting him dead.” Dean laughed harshly, a complete void of humour echoing in the sound. “It’s not that I don’t want him here Sammy.” It was barely a whisper at this point. 

A large gigantor paw landed roughly on Dean’s studiously clasped hands, knotting around his fingers and holding on. Dean chanced a glance at his brother. Tears streaked Sam’s face, a face filled with so much understanding, so much empathy. 

And just like that, another little piece of Dean’s heart broke off and shattered into dust, because so much crap had happened to his baby brother in the last few years. 

So much crap had happened to them all. Dean’s own sob, when it came, was choked and keening, even as Sam’s other hand guided Dean’s forehead to rest against his little brother’s. 

And they stay like that, leaning over either side of a kitchen table older than them both combined, a table their grandfather might have helped built, for all they know, but that their dad never got the chance to sit at, to their eternal regret. They stay like that, forehead touching, hands clasped, tears dripping on that unstainable wood. They stay like that, until Jack wanders in, rubbing sleep from his eyes, a hopeful, “Pancakes?” on his lips. 

They stay like that, until their family awakens from an apparently unbroken-and how, seriously, how?-slumber and comes in search of the most important thing in their little world. Breakfast foods. 

They stay like that until Gabriel shuffles in, scars vivid in the ancient, artificial lighting, eyes a liquid gold, shadows flitting across his face. 

But in that moment, as they untangle cramped fingers and raised wet and sticky faces without shame, somehow, amazingly, those shadows seem to fade for a moment. 

They stay like that until Dean places a plate of pancakes before Gabe, extra chocolate chips added…and a lopsided smiley face written in strawberries across the top. 

They stay there until Gabe lobs those same strawberries at Dean’s laughing head, a smirk stealing across his face, unobscurable by any amount of scars. 

And yeah, maybe they got him sent to Hell. 

But they also broke him out again. And in the grand scheme of things, even the endless chasms of Winchester guilt, that’s gotta count for something, right?

00

“Studies say sharing communal activities is essential for building team cohesion.” Dean blinked. Trust his nerdy brother to use studies as an excuse for having a weekly movie night. 

Still, “Sam, we’re planning to cross into an alternate reality, not attend a film festival.” 

Gabe chose that moment to wander by with the largest bowl of potato chips Dean had every seen balanced carefully in his hands. “Comic-con is really sweet. Lot’s of fangirls.” 

Dean pulled a face, even as his eyes tracked the bowl. “Ew dude…are those sour cream and honey flavoured?” Gabe’s grin had a manic gleam to it. 

Sam knelt by the TV and shook his head, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “you two deserve each other.” Sam’s hair is saved from being lobbed with chip crumbs by Cas looking up from his earnest examination of a video case. 

“What is a Star Wars?” Behind them, Gabe dissolved into a fit of choking laughter. 

Dean rolled his eyes heavenward, and hopped Chuck was having a great time in celestial Tahiti or where ever. 

Wednesday movie nights at the Bunker it was.

00

Dean’s hands were hot and dry on his shoulders. Gabriel focuses on the pressure of each finger, the creak of the joints from too much hunting and too little self-care. He concentrates on the brush of Cassie’s coat against his hair, the sweat beading along Sam’s forehead. 

He doesn’t think about the hands that hold his jaw still, painful in their very gentleness. He doesn’t think about the stoic clench of Dean’s jaw, the tears dripping silently down his own face. 

He doesn’t think about Cassie’s curses, or Sam’s stubborn silence. He doesn’t think about the snick of scissors or the pull of thread through mangled flesh. 

In fact, he tries very, very hard to not think about anything at all. 

00

“-so how are we coming on finding the amulet-“ Dean felt only the briefest brush of air against his neck in warning before firm arms wrapped around his middle. 

“Sneak hug!” The figure was darting away before Dean could begin to muster a sputter in response, golden eyes laughing and smirk firmly in place. 

“I’m hiding the rest of those DVDs! And I’ll spoil the end of the season! Just see if I don’t!” 

Cas leaned against the kitchen counter, trench coat firmly in place, hot chocolate clutched to his chest. Dean sometimes contemplates taking a vacation to somewhere hot and sandy when all this is over, if just to see if Cas would still wear that darn coat in 100 plus weather. 

“Dean,” It was Cas’ exasperated yet fond tone, “Gabriel can just summon more Digital Visual Disks. He is an archangel after all.” 

Dean rolls his eyes heavenward, and seriously considers praying to Chuck. Who knows, maybe the bastard would actually respond to it this time. 

00

“Sneak hug!” Dean crashes dinner, quite literally, his arms squeezing the life out of Gabriel like a giant octopus. Gabriel, being Gabriel, calmly went on eating his steak. It was Dean’s night to cook. 

“I informed Gabriel that you give very good hugs Dean.” Cas’ poker face has improved a great deal over the years. But his still shines sincerity from his eyes like a beacon.   
Sam snorts into his peas, but his nod is just this side of agreement, the traitor. 

Dean huffs, and flops his head onto Gabriel’s shoulder. Well, if you can’t beat ‘em. 

Besides, the little dude gives really great hugs as well. 

Not that Dean cares or anything. 

00

Flick! Dean’s hand froze, wrench carefully wrapped around a particularly delicate part of Baby’s inner workings. Just beyond the handle, a round penny of glazed sugar the colour of yellowed-glass rested against Baby’s engine block, as innocent and innocuous looking as the archangel currently perched on the hood of a vintage Mustang. A ’37 if Dean wasn’t mistaken. And he never was, where cars were concerned. 

Dean had never really gotten the chance to spend enough time with Gabriel to know how he used to like to dress, but the whole leather jacket and rumpled sweatshirt look made him resemble an exhausted TV doctor on holiday more than anything. 

Dean blinked past the random thought. They had been binge watching waaay too much Doctor Sexy. His eyes fastened on the suspicious white paper bag perched at the archangel’s feet. His eyes narrowed. 

“Lemon drops? Really dude?” He was rewarded by a shower of multicoloured candies raining down on his head. Although noticeably, none of them actually connected with either him or Baby. Dean appreciated the thought. And he could have almost wept at the casual display of power inherent in that single, miniscule gesture. 

But crying at Gabe’s “remarkable progress” was Cas and Sammy’s job, so nope, totally dry eyed here thanks. 

“Bertie’s Every Flavoured Beans? Seriously?” Gabriel actually crowed with triumph at that, appearing beside Dean in less than an eye blink, a broad grin on his face. “I knew you’d read them!” And there went Dean’s attempt to stay out of Gabe and Jack’s Epic Harry Potter Discussions, ie, the nightly arguments about the virtues of Snape vs everybody else in fandom. 

Chuck his life was just plain weird these days. 

Dean studiously applied himself and his wrench back to his car. He waited a beat or two, then casually dropped. “For the record, I’m Snape all the way man.” 

Gabe’s whoop was probably audible in Heaven, but as rainbow coloured lollypops started raining from the garage ceiling, Dean made zero effort to keep his face splitting grin from showing. 

Having a big brother was certainly a novel experience. 

But as novel experiences went, it was pretty friggin awesome, truth be told. 

00

“I thought you weren’t that keen on the God squad and all that there Dean-o.” It was hard to look Gabriel in the face, his lips still bleeding freely, his eyes hard and suspicious. 

Considering Ketch was still lurking somewhere about, Dean could hardly blame him. Plus, their last interactions with Heaven’s only vaguely non-douchey Archangel had hardly been what one would term as amicably. Barely tolerable more like. 

Dean gave the soup a last, decisive stir, then turned and plonked a steaming bowl before the Bunker’s newest occupant. 

Gabriel flinched visibly, blanket slipping slightly down his shoulders, fingers awkwardly curling towards the spoon with noticeable hesitancy. 

Dean ignored the sucking hole that seemed to be opening in his chest somewhere in the vicinity of his heart, and reached out to pick up the spoon with a rock steady hand. 

He waited until haunted green-gold eyes met his gaze, “Gabe-Gabriel. In case you hadn’t noticed, everyone I call family is here because of the God squad, former member or resurrected corpse or whatever. It’s kinda hard not to be keen on the people you love man.” 

Carefully placing the spoon into Gabriel’s scarred fingers and closing his hand around it, Dean quirked a smirk and softened the weight of his statement. “Sides, I challenge anyone to resist Cas when he gets those baby blues of his out. Dude’s like a friggin angelic puppy.” 

And it was just a flick, the merest edge of a glance, but for just a moment, Gabriel smiled. 

00

The amulet thudded onto the tactical table with a thonk, purple light bounding around the Bunker’s common area. Gabriel leveled a look at his companions, actually skipping back a step and rubbing his hands together. 

“Come on gents, what are we waiting for here?!”

Cas exchanged a glance with Sam and Dean. “Gabriel, are you quite certain-“ 

Snap! Sam’s breath actually caught at the gesture, Gabe’s fingers snapping together and a bowl of grace appearing on the table at Dean’s elbow. 

“There’s the last ingredient! Now let’s go save ourselves some family members!” 

Dean looked around, shrugged, and leaned over the table. “Who can argue with the archangel in the room.” Raising his eyes to meet Gabe’s manic expression, Dean thudded his hand down on the table. 

Sam hid a smile in a downward glance, then slide his hand on top of his brother’s. “Let’s go get Mom and Jack.” 

Cas strode over to them, tie flapping, and slammed his hand down next, his grace licking at his eyes. “With the four of us together, we will surely succeed.” 

Three sets of eyes, electric blue and sea green and flecked hazel turned to regard their fourth member. Green-gold orbs flashing, Gabriel appeared before them with a flap of wings. Dean sucked in a breadth of his own. 

“Team Free Will 2.5 for the win!” The hand was scarred, the fingers just slightly bent, but the grip was warm and sure and powerful. 

And just like that, the Archangel Gabriel was back in action. 

When they eventually found Mary, bloodied and dirty but alive, Jack an eager yet determined presence at her side, Michael a cooling husk at their feet, the first thing she did was hug everyone. 

And then spend five minutes laughing to the point of tears at their matching t-shirts. 

Cause apparently saving the world and porn just kinda went hand in hand when one of your self-proclaimed identities was the God of Mischief himself. 

But hey, if porn stopped the apocalypse, well, wearing t-shirts that proclaimed the return of the “God of Casa Erotica” into battle? Pretty damn badass if you ask Dean. 

00

It was Ketch who alerted them, in the end. Fed up with Asmodeus’ power-plays or seeking to ingratiate himself or simply picking the winning hand, cause having an Archangel on your side, even a battered, burned, and voiceless one kinda tends to stack the deck in your favour, Dean never much cares to find out the man’s reasons. 

It earns him a place in the final fight, a free pass if the sun is shining, maybe. But the smirk with which he announces to the general occupancy of the Bunker, “I dare say you recall the Archangel Gabriel? God’s chosen Messenger? The one you got killed five minutes into the End of Days Round 1?” 

Well, that smirk will forever haunt Dean. Cas wasn’t in the room, so he refrained from decking the man. Barely. 

But the guilt on Sammy’s face. The shard of pain shooting through Dean’s own heart. Well…a free pass, fair’s fair. But no more than that. 

00

The lock was sticky. After traipsing through four different layers of Hell, one of which looked like a Walmart of all things, killing what felt like several hundred demons, and clenching Angel Blades in their hands until their bones creaked, of course the bloody lock was sticky. 

Because that’s Hell for you, king of the anti-climax experience. Dean mentally shakes himself at the sheer badness of that pun.   
“Dean.” Cas’ hand is warm on his shoulder, his eyes burning bright in the darkness. Dean swallows, and repeats what he said mere days before in the Bunker, Cas a frenetic ball of rage and helplessness, shouting “I left him behind Dean! I was right there! I left my brother to rot!” with a manic energy Dean hasn’t seen Cas display in, well, ever. 

“It’s gonna be okay Cas. We’re gonna bring him home. I swear.” The lock clicks smoothly. 

Behind them, Sam coughs slightly. If the situation were even a hair less dire, Dean would be in the middle of a serious freak out. 

Cause sure, love conquers all and everything. Great. But him and Cas? Their forbidden, world ending, purgatory initiated, he could and should do so much better than Dean thing? Well, that’s just not the sort of thing that should be powering celestial energy or breaking the gates of Hell or anything. 

Well, one measly door in Hell, but still. What the fuck? 

Cas chooses that moment to literally hurtle himself at the door, “Gabriel!” 

Dean sighed, “Well, so much for subtlety.” He squares his shoulders and throws himself after Cas, Sam following close on his heals. 

Hell can bring it the fuck on. Cause they have a big brother to bring home. 

00

Dean has never seen Cas cry. Not like this at least. 

But Gabriel is a shaking ball of blood and chains, and Sam is swearing up a storm, and even Ketch has a clenched jaw, and all Dean can see is an abandoned conference chamber in Nowhere, Indiana, an archangel standing up to his brother, a gleam of sadness in his green-gold eyes. 

All he can hear are Sam’s cries, long into the night, for weeks afterwards. All he can smell is the arid odour of burnt feathers and scorched grace, Cas a slumped figure in a trench coat, his fingers brushing slowly across the outline of wings on cheap wood. 

And all he can think is the one thing that ran threw his head in that moment, over and over and over, never acted on but always wondering. Where the Hell was his body? 

In Hell, apparently. Dean choked at the thought, a particularly alarmed whimper issuing from Gabriel’s sewn shut mouth. 

Swallowing bile, Dean strode forward, his knees hitting rough stone, his palms held up and out, his face open and his eyes raw. 

“Gabriel. I get it man, believe me, I get it. I know this is a lot.” Wild green-gold eyes flit from his face to the wall and to the floor and back. Dean swallowed, footsteps rapidly approaching. Too rapidly. They were out of time. 

“But we need to go, before those guys break in here. And we’re not leaving here without you, so come on.” He held out a hand gripping an angel blade without much expectations, but the barest flicker of eye contact later, and suddenly there’s an archangel’s hand welded around his fingers over the blade. 

Dean stared at the bent digits for a moment, blinked hard, and met Cas’ tear stained glance with a determined expression on his face. 

“Well alright then.” And as they trip and list towards the door, blades and guns raised, preparing to storm their way out of Hell for the millionth time in most of their eyes, Dean feels something begin to flutter within his chest, wings beating until it takes flight and soars free and higher with every step they take towards the surface. 

Maybe Emily Dickinson was onto something after all. 

00  
-scene of them all in the rain, spinning

It did not rain in Hell. In Dean’s experience of Hell, it didn’t rain. Well, not water at least. 

The day Cas raises him from perdition for the first time, Dean stands outside of Bobby’s shower for what feels like hours, the dirt tight and gritty on his skin, the water spraying and sputtering down the frosted glass, Dean’s arms clenched to his chest, as if to prevent his heart from shaking right out onto the floor with its racing beat. 

He stands there until steam turns to billowing clouds of cold and damp. 

He’s been back with Sam a week when the first big rainstorm of the Fall hits. Dean stands out in the parking lot of their motel until his clothes are sodden to his chest, his skin clammy and gray. Sam pitches a fit, and he nearly catches pneumonia, but damn if every biting drop of freezing rain hadn’t felt like a literal benediction. 

See, the thing is, Dean loved dogs once. Adored them. Secretly, quietly, cause, well, John. But still, absolutely loved the furry cuddle monsters. 

And then Hell came, and with it Hell Hounds. And it takes Dean five years and a frigging Doctor Dolittle curse before he can be in the same room as so much as a French poodle without breaking into a cold sweat. 

So water, rain, being clean? Those are all things Dean refuses to let Hell take from him, no matter how hard it tried. 

And for a long time, it sorta worked. And for an equally long time, Dean thought it was just him. Sammy…well, with the return of his soul came the return of his nightmares. Awake and asleep. And between the things he screamed, the things he flinched from, and the things he clenched his jaw at the sight of, well. There are many reasons to hate Lucifer and Michael, the douches. 

Making his little brother afraid of stuff like blades and bright lights and chocolate…well, those are just some of those many reasons. But it is not an insignificant number. 

But Sam never so much as bought an extra umbrella, so water wasn’t one of those things, thank somebody. 

The first time it rains in Purgatory, Dean spins in a slow circle, a broad smile on his face and a breathless laugh in his throat. Benny side eyes him for the next week, but it still takes days for his grin to dissipate completely. 

Their first month back, Cas blinks at the rain quietly, and squeezes Dean’s shoulder gently. It’s a reaction, but not one born of innate fear, but concern and compassion.   
So yeah, just Dean apparently. 

Until Gabriel shows up covered in six kinds of disgusting, smelly, torturous things, and refuses to shower for nearly a month straight. And they work around it, Gabe works around it and through it, as he does with many, many things in those early days.

But it’s still painful, impossible to do the dishes with the archangel in the room kinds of awkward. And maybe Dean finds something reassuring it that, however sick and twisted it makes him feel to even think it. But if it’s okay for an archangel to not be okay, well, maybe there’s hope for the rest of them in this fucked up family after all. Even Dean. 

Gabriel has been back for a month when the first of the spring rain storm hits, torrents of semi-freezing water washing across everything outside the Bunker. 

Gabe still lacks the grace to move himself with a thought, so his dash for the door in nothing but ratty pajamas borrowed off Sam and one of Dean’s old jackets turns into a nearly comical traipse of archangel, Winchester, angel, Winchester. 

Dean is the last to the door simply by virtue of his position in the room at the time, so Gabe is already outside when he gets there. 

And promptly freezes in place, watching with wide eyes as Gabriel actually tips his head back, turning his face into the rain, eyes closed, hands open, letting the freezing water wash away the last vestiges of Hell in slewing, teeth rattling gusts. 

Cas stands at his brother’s back, his own shoulders hunched, but his face an open book of relief and joy. Sam looks torn between confusion and relief, taking the time to snag some extra coats before lumbering out to stand watch over their angels. 

It didn’t rain in Hell. 

Dean clenches his fists, then his jaw. Cas finds his eyes through the driving rain, a hand extending through the storm, fingers open and waiting. Just in case. 

Only if he’s ready. 

Dean swallows a mouthful of ash and memories, and takes the first step outside. 

The rain hits his face like a whip, painful and sharp and clean. 

It didn’t rain in Hell. 

Fingers closing around Cas’ waiting hand, Dean let himself be pulled out into the storm, into the shelter of his family. 

And lifting his face to the sky, for a moment, Dean could have sworn the Heavens themselves were crying with them. 

00

The black leather casing landed an inch from Gabriel’s chocolate éclair. Dean blissfully ignored the dirty look this earned him, snagging a dessert of his own from the tray. 

“Open it!” Jack managed to sound eager even around a mouthful of sugary dough. With a sigh, his uncle obligingly flipped open the ID with one hand, smearing cream cross the casing in the process. 

Dean kept his eyes on his éclair. Sam appeared to be holding his breadth. Mary was holding back a smile as only a truly brilliant poker player can. Cas was utterly failing to do the same. 

A beat. 

“Well, I guess this means we’re officially the Winchester Six. Should I get us matching t-shirts?”

Resounding no’s are followed up by a general pelting of their resident archangel with various confections. Gabe wiped chocolate sauce off his cheek, and grinned like a golden eyed loon. 

“You know what boys, I never thought I’d say this, but it truly is good to be home!” 

Dean swallowed more than just éclair crumbs, his throat tightening. 

Yeah, he got that. 

It sure was indeed. 

00

Sam insists on a group hug. And since it makes everyone he cares about happy. And since said everyone is actually in one place, in one piece, and here, well, who is Dean to argue with his little brother. 

Sides, everyone knows that Winchesters? They give the best hugs.


End file.
